Tea and Toast
by Beechy
Summary: Right, these will just be drabbles for the enjoyment of anyone who wants to read them and myself, as I love writing them. They wont be connected, there probably wont be sequels, prequels, etc. But review if you like it!
1. Chapter 1

**Ok, this will probably just be drabbles with no link between them. Some will probably be slash, maybe some Kid!lock. Exciting stuff, I know. I take requests, prompts, whatever. But please review if you enjoyed it and tell me if I got the anatomy of the violin all wrong, as I only play piano and despise musical theory. I am in complete confidence that some mean person just made it purposely difficult for us to memorise and understand, because, like one consulting detective we all know and love, they were bored. Oh God, I'm rambling. Just please R&R if you like it!**

**(And incase you didn't know, Sherlock is completely the work of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Co. Sherlock Holmes is all down to Arthur Conan Doyle, so actually we all have him to thank)**

John stumbled over the threshold of 221B, the iconic rustle of the Tesco shopping bags - heavy in his rough calloused hands - echoing somewhat around the sparsely furnished hallway. It had been a long and strenuous day. Having to apologise profusely to Mrs Hudson on behalf of Sherlock (who had been too busy sulking in his room to even entertain the idea of performing this exhausting task himself) after Sherlock had shouted at her for attempting to rearrange one of his various human patellae and again reassuring her that she was an ignoramus had really taken it out of John, so he had tried to escape the confinement of 221B - not to mention Sherlock's undisguised and tedious silent treatment – by picking up a second carton of milk from the local Tesco's, after the first had been the victim of Sherlock's merciless anger the previous day (after having no luck whatsoever with the case they were currently working on) and had subsequently ended up open on the kitchen floor. Unfortunately, it rains one in every three days in the UK, so John was currently standing on the doormat of 221B Baker Street, sopping wet and the shopping threatening to slip out of his hands onto the floor, shamelessly ready for one steaming mug of tea and two thick slices of toast, brown with a thick layer of butter and a thin one of strawberry jam. It really wasn't much to ask.

He was immediately greeted, though, by the smooth, flowing sound of (John guessed) one of Chopin's valses, coming inevitably from upstairs, where he knew the bitter - yet beautiful - song to currently be playing on his flatmate's beloved violin, John picturing the owner of said violin gliding with unavoidable grace and rhythm across the wooden floorboards along with the piece. A symphony of creaking sounds above him proved John's suspicions to be undoubtedly correct.

This was to be expected, really. One of Sherlock's favourite pastimes, especially after a long hard day of sulking and pacing infuriatingly round the flat, was to play his violin. So John sighed to himself, and then proceeded up the stairs to where he knew Sherlock to be playing.

Sure enough, the consulting detective stood, his eyes closed, allowing himself to be momentarily carried away by the music, his arm only really dancing, fleeting, across the strings, contributing effective ornaments here and there, the other wrist adding a pleasant wavering sound as the piece finally ended. His thin, grey silk dressing gown had been billowing about him as he paraded around the room. This usually would have made Sherlock seem small and meek, but it gave him the air of complete grandeur and almost royalty, verging on precocious really, John decided. But whatever opinion John possessed of the great Sherlock Holmes, the clever detective in the funny hat, even 'the virgin', he really could not deny that Sherlock was an outstanding violinist.

As if reading his very thoughts (John wouldn't put it past him), Sherlock promptly turned around and stated with what was most likely the most snobbiest tone ever thought into creation, his voice dripping - no, his voice a cascading waterfall of undisguised sarcasm -

'Really John, the gormless expression that is currently plastered across your face does give you the air of a rather shocked codfish, or some other meaningless creature. So if you'd kindly like to tell me in whatever variant of the English language you deem fit how incredible, spectacular or amazing that was and be done with it, it would be much appreciated.'

He added a very sceptical smirk for good measure as John proceeded to begin to clench and unclench his fists, mentally count to ten and finally make his way to the kitchen for his tea and toast.


	2. Chapter 2: Priorities

**Thank you to anyone who read, alerted and reviewed the previous chapter. I'm really enjoying writing these and there will undoubtedly be more, so watch this space! Once again, please review if you enjoy it! Constructive critisism is ALWAYS welcome!**

Chapter 2: Priorities

They sat in the taxi on the way back from Scotland Yard, allowing the splendour and charm of moonlit London to absorb them as the events of the day washed over John's mind, and Baker Street grew ever closer, along with the prospect of a hot bath and a long awaited and well deserved sleep.

The case - according to Sherlock - had been 'transparent', 'obvious', 'unoriginal' and 'unimaginative' yesterday. Now, however, the criminal had been - according to Sherlock - crowned 'brilliant', 'genius' and 'deliciously insane'. So John found himself sitting in the back of a taxi with the worlds only consulting detective, who was – and there was really no other way to describe it – rambling.

'Brilliant John!' He declared for the twenty-seventh time. Possibly the twenty-eighth. 'He really knows how to play this game! I'll admit, I really had no faith in the case up till now, but the analysis John! The analysis! So elegant! Intricate, even!'

'Yeah, yeah that's great Sherlock. Absolutely.' Replied John, in a bored and uninterested monotone that would usually send Sherlock over the edge with the level of tedium that it consisted of, but he was too busy wrapped up in the murky abyss of his own thoughts to care about the fact that John was currently more interested in something outside the cab, maybe a dog, John was fond of dogs.

'Now, all we have to consider is of course the - '

But John was the only one who had noticed the drunken driver of the speeding Toyota a few seconds previously, and with the excruciating screech of tearing metal and the shattering of breaking glass, the two vehicles collided.

And in the space of a few more seconds, multiple things happened.

The careless driver of the Toyota – who had neither attempted to swerve or even wear a seatbelt– flew in his seat, sending his own head through the windscreen and, as his body and internal organs lurched forward, his ribs stayed behind, cracking and piercing his heart. That man died instantly.

The driver of the taxi on the other hand swerved by instinct, his synapses working to create a reflex circuit, but unfortunately this did not stop the Toyota slamming into the rear left side of the taxi. That man would suffer from shock and possibly a mild headache, which would both fade in time.

Sherlock Holmes – who had been sitting in the middle seat, with the lap belt – was roughly pushed out of harm's way by John and consequently ended up hitting his forehead on the opposite window with a sickening thud, crying out in pain but otherwise fine. John Watson's arm was caught between the imploding door and his own seat, after using the other arm to ensure Sherlock's safety. It couldn't even be described as a reflex, not really. John's purpose, in that one moment, had been to protect his best friend. Despite how much of an irritating person he could be at times, John loved him. It's funny, peculiar, how one person's actions, with the most disastrous consequences, can reveal another person's priorities. Those two men ended up in hospital the next day, with a broken arm and a concussion, but both relived inside with the thought that the only scars that the other would bear would be the memories. The reminiscent remains of that infamous night. The night John Watson's priorities were revealed.


End file.
